


Differences

by glacis



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:34:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser and Kowalski discover that the differences between them, and the choices they make because of them, can make all the difference in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Differences

Differences, a Due South story by Sue Castle. Rated NC17. No copyright infringement intended, third season setting, includes spoilers for Mountie on the Bounty.

 

If only it wasn't so damned hot. Chicago wasn't this hot. Well, not this _kind_ of hot. Sticky, itchy, wet. Sweat sliding in tickling trickles across his chest, down his stomach, in the crease of his thighs, pooling under his butt. And the air was heavy. It pressed on his ribs, making it so hard to breathe. Held his arms down, pushed up against his throat. Spread his legs apart with its force, and made him ache.

He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. He was drowning.

It smelled wrong.

Sounded funny.

Ray Kowalski woke with a start, flinging the oppressive weight off him as his subconscious realized it was the _wrong_ weight, and panicked from the crushing sense of claustrophobia and danger that sent his nerves on high alert. As he twisted and shoved , the warm weight lying against him gave an undignified shriek, landed with a loud thump on the unforgiving concrete floor, and began to call him any number of imaginative things in gutter Spanish.

Well, it wasn't Fraser.

By the time Ray woke completely up, he was sitting on a dirty sidewalk in the muggy pre-dawn hours of a Mexican morning, clutching his jeans and boots to his chest, blinking sleep out of his eyes and wondering what the hell had just happened. The door behind him was still reverberating from the slamming it had gotten after she'd thrown him out, and he could still hear muffled derogatory remarks about his lineage and personal habits filtering through the ill-fit door.

At least she let him keep the poncho.

Ignoring the only-vaguely interested looks from the few people wandering by, he dressed as quickly as he could and started walking toward the bus station. Guess it was time to go home.

If only he could figure out what the hell he kept dreaming about. And why he missed it so much. And why he came so hard, and why he never remembered why.

 

The filing cabinets appeared to be carved from whale bone. The moonlight bleached out most of the defining shadows, leaving the impression of oddly two dimensional boxes carved from old bone and somehow set adrift in a cramped office in Chicago. A cramped office that was, at the moment, in the process of shrinking.

Intellectually, Benton Fraser knew that the walls weren't actually moving. However, lying there telling himself that he was just being silly was doing no good whatsoever. A face had woken him from the light sleep he had managed to attain, and now he was suffering from insomnia, a rarity in his strictly regimented life, but one that was rapidly becoming less rare the longer he remained in the United States. It had been exciting enough when Ray Vecchio, his best friend, had been within call. No one in his right mind could call their adventures, for want of a better word, mundane or boring. And things had become, if anything, even more interesting since Stanley Raymond Kowalski had gone undercover and taken over his best friend's life.

Not that his best friend had fought particularly hard to keep it.

To keep him.

Burying the desolate little thought under the litany that he usually used, Benton reminded himself that Ray had a duty, and Duty Came Before All. He repeated it several times, as his brain was less receptive to logic the later in the evening, or earlier in the morning, it became. Eventually, it started to sink in again, fought through the layers of unacknowledged betrayal and aching pain, and managed to force a layer of calm over his heart once more. He was really quite good at that.

He had to be.

Against his will, faces formed behind his eyelids. His mother, barely remembered consciously, but a strong presence deep within him, quietly accepting her illness. Making what preparations she could, while he stood at the side, wondering why she didn't fight. Not why she didn't fight harder, but why she didn't fight at all. From an adult perspective he knew, now, that she had been suffering from a terminal disease, and had faced it with fortitude and courage. To a four year old, she had given up. Easily.

Leaving him with his Grandparents. Strong people, who would never give up. They had taught him well. Too well, perhaps. That duty was everything, and what mattered was a man's actions. Always. The truth was seen in what a man did, not what he said, for words could be twisted and meant nothing. So there were no words. There were actions. His father had been the epitome of that theme. His mother had died alone, his grandparents had eventually passed away and then, before he ever got the opportunity to actually know the man, his father had been taken from him. Well, perhaps taken wasn't the appropriate word. He'd left. Always. His family had taught him that when duty called, a person left, whether that duty be the job or the ubiquitous others or death itself. Never the young boy, growing into the man. Their actions had taught him quite clearly that he came last, if at all. Not that he was apt to admit that, of course. He hadn't even really thought about it, hadn't allowed himself to think about it. Until he met the Vecchios, and realized there were other options.

His thoughts skittered away from that image, and settled on another. Long, curling dark hair surrounding a pale face with burning dark eyes and a mouth made for sin. He'd never truly believed in his Grandmother's concept of sin. Then he'd met Victoria . And he had done his duty. The first time. The second time he'd been determined that he would break the cycle, that he would put love before duty. Unfortunately, no one had mentioned to Victoria that love entailed more than manipulation, lying, and retribution. He had very nearly died for that particular lesson.

Ray had pulled him back. Of course, Ray had been the one to shoot him, and therefore was literally responsible for his being nearly dead in the first place, but the truth as he understood it was that it had all been his, Benton Fraser's, Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman's, fault. He hadn't done his duty, and he'd suffered for it. In that instant, his friendship had mutated, and the intensity of his feelings had shifted. He had fallen in love, truly in love, as opposed to obsessed, for the first time in his life.

Of course nothing had come of it. How could it? True, they hadn't been on opposite sides of the law, as he and Victoria had been. But in every other category that mattered, they were poles apart -- too many poles to ever successfully navigate a sexual relationship. For starters, Vecchio was heterosexual. Then there were the other aspects to the man. He was a practicing Catholic, of Italian heritage, with a minor obsession himself with proving his own machismo to others, and he was a detective in a closed society that was historically notoriously homophobic. Benton had never asked.

Ray had never offered.

His second chance had been a chimera. He had not had the courage to choose Victoria when that choice might have made a difference. He hadn't had the courage to defy his own or his friend's conventions and choose Ray.

Now, in the depths of a humid Chicago night, staring at the moonlight weaving patterns on the whalebone of metal filing cabinets, Ben took a deep breath and faced the truth. His unconscious mind had a reason for throwing that particular face at him whenever he closed his eyes. The feeling was back for what he had a deep suspicion might be the final time. For a man wearing another man's life. Who was in love with the wife from his previous life. Or was he just in love with life's lost possibilities? A bit like Fraser himself.

Kowalski had come to the sticking point. And he hadn't left.

It was utterly illogical. But for once, his mind and his instincts were in tandem. And they were telling him to ask this time.

 

Stan "Ray" Kowalski punched the slow motion button on the VCR remote one more time and grinned happily down at Deifenbacher. Had to love the wolf. No one, but NO ONE else, understood just what a rush this was. He was an athlete, but not really the kind of athlete people thought about when they thought about sports. He was a dancer, always had been. Not too coordinated when it came to things that needed sticks and balls. But with a little help from Fraser, he'd done it. He'd handled it. For the first time in his life he'd hit the winning ball, and he was still running on the high from it.

Everyone else was just running from it.

Well, everybody except Fraser. For a moment, odd words whispered through his mind. "Count the seams." "Bloom, close, kick 'em in the head." Where the hell did the guy learn this stuff, growing up in the wilds of Frozen Wherethefuck? Not that it mattered. The Mountie was Always Prepared, even when it came to baseball, the _American_ national sport. Sometimes Ray thought they could drop Fraser in the middle of a pit full of charging rottwielers and he'd pull out his handy dandy dog karma charm and have 'em all eating out of his hand and drinking tea together. For some reason, that didn't irritate him the way it had for the past several months. In fact, the image made his grin even wider. So when Fraser came up behind him and began to chide the wolf for spending all his time watching television and growing soft, Ray turned around and beamed at him.

Benton choked.

Kowalski gave him a quizzical look, cocking his head to one side. Fraser ran a finger under the edge of his collar and smiled weakly back at him. Deciding it was a some sort of Canadian thing, Ray shrugged it off and tossed the remote over onto the television stand.

"Hey, Fraser, you wanna go get somethin' to eat?" He was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His whole body felt tingly. For once in his lousy life, something was going right, and he was hoping he was on a roll. And he wanted to share that with his friend, his partner. He didn't look too closely at his reasons, he was just running on instinct. As usual.

Fraser stared at him for a long moment, long enough for Ray to begin to wonder if he had something disgusting in his hair, then nodded agreement. Ray punched him lightly on the arm and bounced over to his desk, catching up his jacket and heading for the door. After a moment, he realized that Fraser wasn't behind him, and threw a glance over his shoulder.

The Mountie was standing at the side of the desk, staring about midriff height at Ray's back. His eyes were sort of glazed. He looked a little like he'd been poleaxed. Before Ray could come back to him and ask him what was up, he shook himself, all over, like a dog coming out of a swimming pool. Then he cleared his throat and caught up to Ray at the door. Kowalski looked at him, puzzled, but Ben just extended one hand politely in invitation toward the door. The detective shrugged and led the way to dinner.

An hour later he was ready to pull his hair out by the roots. Fraser, who could normally rattle on about stuff for hours, hadn't said two words. Other than ordering. In Mandarin. Then he'd proceeded to alternate between chasing individual grains of rice around on his plate, stare into his teacup like he could read the leaves floating there (which he probably could, but Ray didn't ask) and staring at Ray as if his friend had suddenly grown a third eye. It was all making Ray very touchy.

"Okay. Spit it out." The command cut across the silence like a knife. Fraser looked at him in shock, then with great delicacy spat the cashew he had been chewing directly onto the middle of his plate. Ray stared at it in shock -- how had he managed to do that without leaving any spit on it? -- before shaking his head. "Are you _always_ so damned literal? Don't answer that!" An upraised hand stopped the explanation before Fraser could start it. "I know you are. Or you're just playing with my head. Either way, that's not the point. What's goin' on here, Fraser?"

Overly innocent limpid blue eyes stared back at him, a mildly inquiring eyebrow lifted. Not a word passed those lips. Ray growled.

"If I screwed something up," again, he thought but didn't say, "then TELL me. I'm no mind reader. And I'm not sure I could read yours anyway. Probably written in Latin or Sanskrit or something."

Fraser stared at him for a moment longer, then relented. Slightly. "You haven't done anything, Ray. I'm merely concentrating on my dinner, and neglecting our conversation."

He launched into a mini-treatise on the conversational habits of different closed groups in the far north, and Ray stared at him. By this time, tension was working away at his stomach, and he'd lost his appetite. He was _never_ going to understand this guy. And he didn't know why, but he wanted to. Bad. Watching his mouth move, letting the words flow over him, it took a moment to realize that his partner had stopped yapping. Fraser was staring at him. Again. There was a funny kind of lost look in his eyes, a sadness Ray didn't understand. Like Ben was trying to tell him something, and they weren't speaking the same language. It was really starting to bug him, because he had the feeling he was missing something important.

Chomping through a broccoli spear, he sighed inwardly. Wouldn't be the first time he'd missed his cue when it came to other people, people he cared about. Probably wouldn't be the last. The thought echoed through his head and he nearly choked on his dinner.

Cared?

Where had that come from?

And what _exactly_ did it mean?

Staring across the table at the man staring back at him, he swallowed painfully, and decided that right now was not the best time to think about that. So he just wouldn't.

Yet.

 

It had been a thoroughly unsettling evening. First, the lack of sleep and emotionally laden thoughts of the previous night had made him somewhat tense. Then he had made his way into the station to find himself on the receiving end of a beaming smile that had rendered him curiously short of breath. Now, he was trying to concentrate on his meal, losing his train of thought at regular intervals every time the light caught in the blonde hair or a shadow outlined the line of tendon along Ray's throat.

Then his father had to show up. Of course.

"Aren't you going to eat that, son?" The ghost gestured toward the cashew chicken that Fraser was pushing around on his plate.

Throttling to urge to offer a dead man his dinner, ignoring the urge to respond verbally, knowing that Ray would think he was losing his mind, he just glared for an instant at his father then returned his attention to Ray. It didn't help.

"It's good to see the two of you getting along so well. A man should be able to trust someone, and the best person for the job is his partner. It's not anything to be ashamed of, needing your partner. Not that a man would need to talk about it, but nevertheless, it is there." Fraser, Sr. appeared to have talked himself into a corner, and settled with nodding decisively. His son shook his head for a moment as if to clear it, then stared back down at his plate.

If his father knew just exactly HOW he needed his partner, he'd hit the high country at a gallop and never come back.

"No, not necessarily, son." Fraser's head came up and he stared at his father's ghostly face. The dark eyes were twinkling at him. "You know, out in the wilds, a man learns to depend on his partner for many things. To watch his back, help him carry the load, keep him warm …" The deep voice trailed off, and father and son looked at one another for a very long time. "To make him whole." The twinkle was gone, replaced by a somberness Benton had seldom seen. "There were several reasons I encouraged you so strongly to mend fences with your partner, son, to trust him, to listen to him. He's good for you. And he needs you as much as you need him. Which is a great deal. Give it some thought."

Fraser could no longer maintain eye contact, his thoughts whirling so fast they were making him dizzy. He glanced away, at his hand, holding the chopsticks, somehow completely unconnected with him, with who he was, with the chaos in his head. This conversation could not be happening. His father could not be saying what it sounded like he was saying. Determined to respond, even if Ray did think he was insane, Benton looked up again.

His father had disappeared. Ray was looking at him strangely. He smiled weakly. Ray shrugged, and went back to pushing his own rice around with his fork.

Benton's eyes were drawn to the fine boned hand, the long fingers. Callused where they gripped a gun and a pencil, two halves of the professional visible on an elegant, capable hand. A little like Ray Vecchio's in their slimness, their lethality, but pale, knuckles reddened by exposure to the elements, a dusting of freckles across the back. A sudden, vivid image of those hands on his body made his breath freeze in his lungs.

This time, he would take the risk. This time, he would ask. He smiled, suddenly calm, at peace with his decision and the ramifications it could, and would, entail. His friendship with Kowalski was important, but he was tired of constantly missing his chance. He would take this one, this once, and see where it led him. If he was lucky, and his father was right, it would be the chance of a lifetime.

If not, he would simply roll with the punches, once again, and soldier on. He was very good at that.

They settled the bill in silence, and headed toward Ray's car. Fraser's head was swimming with potential actions, trying to calculate odds, weighing and discarding a myriad of possible opening ploys. He was not skilled with this, tended, in fact, to fail miserably when he attempted to deal with his emotions. But he was a desperate man, at the end of his tether, and he had a sinking feeling this would be his one and only chance. Ray would either kiss him or kill him, but he would no longer hide in the silence.

Two blocks from the car, Benton made a decision. He would ask to go up to Ray's apartment with him, then broach the subject there. If Ray became upset, he wouldn't have to drive in that state, and if he threw Benton out, the walk home would give him plenty of time to reflect on the consequences of his actions upon their friendship. If Ray responded positively to his overtures, well … Ray had a bed. Benton didn't. It was a practical plan in every sense.

One block from the car it went right out the window.

Three men, two moving, one not, with the obvious cause of the stillness of the prone body being the knife lodged in his ribs. The killers ran, as killers will, and the Mountie and the Cop followed, as was their wont. Eight blocks, two alleys and one abandoned warehouse later, a stand-off had developed. Deep in the bowels of the basement offices, Benton was calculating ever-decreasing possibilities of escape as Ray was edging around the corner of a battered wall and snapping off shots. They'd called for back-up on Ray's cell phone (for once, miraculously, working), but it would be some time before it arrived. Hopefully, they'd still be alive and not shot full of bullet holes by that time.

Common sense dictated that they stay put, continue to draw fire, and stay hidden until the back-up units could effect a rescue. The increasing lack of oxygen and sense of claustrophobia assailing Benton assured that common sense would not be heard.

"I would suggest," Fraser paused to duck out of the way of a ricocheting bullet, then continued with no pause in his delivery, "that we duck through this air vent, into the rear," another quick duck, a little closer this time, "alley, and draw them further out."

Ray looked at him with no patience and less belief, shook his head once and replied, "I'm not even gonna tell you no." He peeked around the corner, snapped off another shot, and drew his head back into his shoulders like a startled turtle returning to its shell.

Fraser didn't bother arguing. He _had_ to get out of here. Away from Ray. Everything in him was screaming at him to get some air, to push back the torrent of adrenaline running through him, to calm down, and above all, _not_ to take hold of Ray and kiss him senseless. It simply wasn't the right time for that sort of thing. He put his head down and charged for the broken vent.

He got one step away. Then a surprisingly strong hand wrapped around his biceps, yanked him back against the wall, and slammed him bodily into the dusty plaster. In the space of a heartbeat, two shots buried themselves in the back wall. Had Benton continued on his original path, they would have buried themselves in his back, instead. But he didn't have the time, the air, or the attention to concentrate on the ramifications of Kowalski's actions. He was too busy trying to adjust to the warm, bony but substantial weight of his partner pressing him into the wall. So he did the only logical thing he could think of to do under the circumstances.

He kissed Ray Kowalski.

Hard.

Thoroughly.

As if he must steal the other man's breath to live. As if it was his last action on earth.

After an eternity of shocked rigidity and frozen immobility, Ray kissed him back.

 

Adrenaline does funny things to a guy. There he was, wishing he had his glasses, squinting into the shadows and trying to see around corners, popping off shots at perps he couldn’t even see, and hoping to hit one of 'em, when Fraser gets it in his head that it's time to blow the joint and take their chances in the middle of an alley where they could really be nice targets. Sometimes he wondered where the Canadian's head was at. So, he tells him, no way, no how, nuh-huh, and the guy goes and tries for it anyway. So Ray grabs hold of him, hauls him back, saves his ass for him and what does the Mountie do?

Kisses him.

Deep.

Wet.

Like he's trying to suck Ray's tonsils out through his teeth. Like a house a-fire when you tell it to quit burning.

Ray couldn't move. Couldn't think. Knew, in a little hysterical corner in the back of his mind, that they were going to get their butts shot off any time now, and this was just not the time for smooching, and what the hell did he think he was doing? He certainly didn't taste anything like Stella … but he tasted damned good. Much better dry than wet.

Too good.

Then his mouth was relaxing, opening, as other parts of him were stiffening up, and somewhere in the middle of the shock he figured out that while his brain was flipping out, his body was really liking this. And he was kissing Fraser back. How had that happened? Before he could stop his free hand from clutching at Ben's jacket or his thigh from wiggling forward to nestle between Ben's legs, or talk his mouth out of kissing the other man back just as hard as he was being kissed, the shooting stopped.

Somebody else was here. Lots of somebody elses.

Dimly, through the rushing in his ears, he heard the sirens and actually identified them as such, instead of the bells that had been going off in his head from the kissing. There was the stamp of feet, the sharp ping ping of return fire from out in the street, the shouts of warning and alarm that showed the cavalry was there.

His hand unwrapped itself from Ben's lanyard. His leg retreated back where it belonged. His mouth was tingling. His brain was fried. He stared into wide, impossibly wide bright blue eyes, and tried to remember who he was, where he was, why he was.

It didn't work.

The wide eyes closed, suddenly, and he felt oddly bereft. Strong hands held him away from the broad chest, and he was alone again, swaying in the middle of a dirty floor, looking up rickety steps at the uniforms clattering down to greet them.

Oh. Yeah. Report. He could do that.

So he did, in monosyllables, short, sweet, and to the point. Nodding agreement to the particulars, agreeing to see to the paperwork, pissing and moaning a little about having a late night just because an inconsiderate couple of punks had to go and murder somebody right in front of them.

Them.

Where the hell was Fraser?

Shrugging, still on autopilot, and still mildly in shock, Ray Kowalski holstered his weapon, signed another man's name to a report, thanked a young kid in a uniform, and headed back to his apartment. It had been a hell of a night. He was just too tired to think.

A couple hours later, tossing restlessly under a thin blanket that felt like it was smothering him, his mind finally sorted out his confusion for him.

He was underwater again, stuck in that little tiny cramped airless tin can with Fraser in his lap. They were sweating. He could smell himself, could smell Fraser, could almost taste him. The metal edge of fear unacknowledged, the tang of uncertainty, the clean strong scent of snow and apples that never quite disappeared from the Mountie, even in the dirtiest of circumstances. The sub turned, weight shifted, those strong hips backed into him, the muscular round ass cheeks pressing into his crotch. Couldn't breathe. Didn't really want to. Just needed … more.

Muscle memory brought his hands into a curve, spanning the solid waist. His thighs parted to cradle the weight of his partner pressing back into him. They were underwater on the ship now, and his foot was caught, and he had no air, and Fraser knew. Came back. Freed him.

Kissed him.

Fed him. The breath of life. Kiss of life. Buddy breathing. Buddy kiss.

Back in the sub, no clothes this time. How did that happen? Who the fuck cared? Smooth muscled chest, skin like wet satin under his hands. Cheeks parting around his hard-on, lifting into the crushing weight, the encompassing warmth. Heavy head against his shoulder, blue eyes looking back into his own. "Just looking." Always looking. Leaning sideways, craning his neck, hands drawing Ben closer, kissing Ben.

Kissing Ben.

Ben rising in the cramped confines of the sub. Ray wanted that mouth back, tried to protest, but there was no air. No air. Weight settling down again, enveloping his dick, swallowing it whole, clamping down on it. He screamed, and it was caught in that mouth, in that kiss again. His wrists were caught by strong arms, he couldn't move, couldn't twist or turn or escape, not that he wanted to escape, but he had to move. He was held, squeezed, his head was exploding, both of 'em, okay, that would work, who needed to breathe?

His lungs were rattling, his head was throbbing, his dick was pounding. Pounding. Pounding?

That wasn't his dick. That was the door.

Still more than half asleep, not sure if he was on dry land or the middle of Lake Michigan, missing those lips and that ass and those eyes, Ray staggered from his bed and fell against the door frame, answering that annoying rapping, flinging it open. Staring at his visitor.

Fraser.

Of course.

Who else would it possibly be?

 

The door swung open under his knuckles, and for a very long moment Ben stood there with his arm still extended upward, fist poised to knock again. He forgot to breathe. Couldn't seem to stop himself from staring. Felt himself harden, and blushed, and suddenly gasped in the breath he had lost. He felt light-headed.

Ray was rumpled, half dressed, half undressed, wholly adorable and, not incidentally, utterly aroused. Deliberately throwing logic to the winds one final time, Benton Fraser, R.C.M.P., went with his instincts. With great gusto.

The fist still risen to knock opened to curl around the edge of the door. His other hand flew outward to tug Kowalski out of the way by the simple expedient of catching his waistband and pushing him back into the room. The door was shut with a quick, efficient heel of one boot. Lips descended to cover the irritated open mouth before any protests could be formed.

He frog-marched Ray backward into the apartment, through the living room, into the bedroom, grasping mouths never completely disconnecting. Short gasps for breath Fraser allowed, but no extended period of calm, nothing that might lead to intellect kicking in and ruining a lovely session of pure animal instinct.

Once Ray was safely ensconced atop the crumpled blanket, Fraser stripped with all the speed and dexterity of a man on a mission. It was truly amazing how quickly a fully dressed completely equipped variously accoutered Mountie could get naked when need called. And need was screaming like a banshee at this point. His boots attempted to give him difficulties, but even recalcitrant laces couldn't slow him down.

His hands clamped on to the slender, muscular arms and bore Kowalski down to the bed. Expecting resistance, he was amazed and gratified to find nothing but enthusiastic cooperation from his partner. Their hands met, tangled, parted and went their separate ways as they explored every square (and curved) centimeter, pinching, soothing, cupping, stroking. Finally, urgent with want and not willing to delay his need any longer, Fraser pinned Kowalski's hands above his head. Huge light eyes stared up at him, unexpected desire heating them, binding them together.

He dipped his head and hovered close over Ray's face, his tongue darting out to outline the finely drawn lips, slipping in to taste the heated warmth inside. The wiry, muscled chest beneath his own broader one heaved against him, the slide of sweating skin catching at his nipples, warming his stomach, rampant flesh straining against his own erection. Benton was in heaven. Time slowed down, and the universe narrowed to the spicy, salty taste of flesh beneath his open mouth, crisp hair brushing against his cheek, hard muscled thighs wrapping around his waist. Strong hands caught at his head, cradled the nape of his neck, kneaded the long muscles in his back, pulled and pressed at his buttocks. One questing finger traced his cleft, pressed inquisitively at the hidden opening, teased him unmercifully and retreated before returning to do it all over again.

It was happening too quickly. He wanted to make this last, wanted to prolong the fire, make it so very good that the risk would be worth the reward, and worth the loss if it turned out badly. It might very well be his only chance at this heaven, and he was loath to leave it too quickly. He drew back, gratified but not dissuaded by the moan of loss the separation brought forth from his partner. Keeping a firm rein on his rampant desire, he settled in to exploring and tasting every succulent tidbit of Ray Kowalski. He took a leisurely tour of the man's entire body.

He drove Ray out of his mind.

By the time Fraser had finished, he held a quivering mass of whimpering mush in his arms. He was so hard he ached, and his pre-ejaculate coated his stomach where his penis had been drooling, deliberately ignored, for much too long. His nerve endings were on fire, and his much vaunted control was virtually nonexistent. He worked with fierce concentration, bringing his fingers to Ray's mouth, watching with avid hunger as they were suckled and thoroughly wetted, then inserting them with due deliberation into Ray's fundament. His lover twisted and plunged with barely contained urgency, until the demand from both men grew too strong, and he gave himself over to the driving need. As he pushed past the tight ring of muscle there was a startled "Oh! God!" from Ray, barely muffled in the pillow, but the surge backward took any thought of stopping from his mind. Or what was left of his mind, anyway.

He forced himself to slow, determined not to hurt his Ray, but the twisting body beneath him overcame that determination, forcing itself backward until he was buried to the hilt. Heaven, attained. For an instant of perfection, nothing existed but the pulse that tied them together, the physical joining that made them one. It ended as it must end, tumbling into irresistible motion, sliding pull of heat into heat, thrusting to the heart, from the heart. As the world around them expanded and contracted with their movement, time melted, and motion intensified, then paused, trembling, before fragmenting into shards of light with no sound. No sound, at least, from the Mountie. One sound, broken, wrenched from Kowalski.

"Fra-ser!!" Fractured rapture. Answers articulated in extremis to unanticipated questions.

Ben slowly sank down beside Ray, slipping from him with a stifled moan, turning his body until they were facing one another, weary dark head subsiding onto one round-muscled shoulder, sweat drenched, peaceful face burrowing into the warm sweet curve of Ray's neck. As the darkness surrounded him, he smiled, certain that, for once, he had taken the chance while it still existed. It seemed, after all, that instinct was the only thing he could truly rely on, when dealing with the heart.

 

Kowalski was wide awake. So there was no way he could've been dreaming.

He'd _been_ dreaming. He knew that. He couldn't've been underwater and in a sub and still be in his apartment. Then Fraser'd come to the door and things had gotten really weird.

Had he just been fucked? Licked all over like a giant Popsicle, until he turned to jelly, then fucked 'til he couldn't move?

God, yeah.

Well, then again, no, not really. It wasn't really fucked. It was, that thing. That thing the singers were always going on about.

He'd been loved.

Thoroughly.

His arms tightened instinctively around the heavy bulk of his partner, snuggled trustingly against his chest. It was amazing. Covered in sweat and spunk and passed out cold, Fraser still smelled like apples and snow.

He stared through the darkness at a shadow on the wall, contrast gradually sharpening as his eyes adjusted to the low light until he could make out that it was his poncho, hanging from a hook. No. He wasn't dreaming. not this time. This, this was real. So damned much better than a dream. It was only logical, when he thought about it. Yeah, they had differences. That's what made them work, made them click. They complemented one another. Heart and head. Instinct and intellect. Body and mind. Cop and Mountie.

The possibilities were endless. Thank god for the differences.

~~~~finis~~~

 

 


End file.
